Gloomy Sunday
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: A suicide on the island has everyone shaken up. Shannon and Sayid bond, Hurley and Rose help Charlie cope with Claire's dissapearance, and Jack comes to terms with being the unoffical leader of the island. Finished February 12, 2005. R&R!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own _Lost_ or any of its characters. I sincerely hope I am the first person to use this plot, but I write more fic for this show than I read, so if someone else has done this first, I apologize. The title is a song, covered by Sarah McLachlan. I forget who sung it originally.

Summary: A suicide on the island has everyone shaken up. Will be Charlie/Claire, Shannon/Sayid, and possibly Jack/Kate/Sawyer. And Hurley's there too… I dunno who I ship him with yet. He deserves someone really great, and the only really cool girl on the island is Claire, and she's taken. :)

Please note this is just a prologue… I wanted to toss the idea out there but it probably won't be continued until mid-term exams are over in a week or so

_Gloomy Sunday_

_Prologue_

It was Charlie who found the body. Of course, it had to be; the bitter gods of irony wouldn't have allowed to be anyone else. Just barely beginning to recover from whatever it was that had happened to him and Claire, Charlie had begun a strange sort of ritual. Every day, just after dawn, he would rise and walk out into the woods, head down, hands in his pockets, and be gone for hours. Jack had been worried at first, but every time Charlie came back, he seemed just a little more human, a little more able to function, a little less likely to stare at nothing and cry all day. They had decided it was helping him cope, and so they let him continue… but Jack still designated someone to walk a little behind him each time. Ethan was still out there; it wasn't safe for anyone to wander alone, especially not Charlie.

Drawn by Charlie's screams, Hurley, who had been following him that day, had come running as fast as he could (which, he was proud to say, was faster than it had been a few weeks ago). Every other thought was pushed out of his head as he broke into the clearing. Charlie was screaming, sobbing, and fled to Hurley's side as soon as he recognized him, without so much as a 'and why the bloody hell are _you_ here?'

Hurley put a hand on Charlie's shoulder and forced his blonde head away from the sight. But as repulsive as it was, Hurley couldn't bring himself to look away as well. There was blood _everywhere_, it seemed. It polluted the ground of the clearing, and some was on the trees and shrubbery near by. It turned his stomach.

But moreso that that, the man― the _corpse_― who lay in the middle of it all had a smile on his face. A disgusting, peaceful smile.

To be continued….

Um, this was just to throw it out there. This isn't my best work, I know, but as soon as I have time to concentrate on this more, it will get better, I promise.


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not own anyone but Ryan. This takes place before 'Hearts', so Hurley's leg is uninjured. I will probably incorporate Shannon and Boone's past into later chapters, though.

_Gloomy Sunday_

_Chapter One_

Hugo "Hurley" Reyes had assumed his 'responsible face'. It was all he could do to keep the shivers wracking Charlie Pace's body to engulf him as well. God, there had been a lot of blood. And if there was one thing Hurley didn't like, besides being lost on a remote, chocolateless, hot-as-hell island, it was blood. As it was, though, Hurley knew he had to be strong... if only for a little bit, if only for Charlie. And maybe a little for himself too.

Both his hands were resting on Charlie's shoulders, half guiding, half pushing the smaller man back towards the cave settlements. Charlie was sobbing, incoherently; there may have been words in there, but none that Hurley could distinguish. Still, the sound was heart-breaking. At least, Hurley thought darkly, the body hadn't been Claire's. This had been bad enough, but finding Claire, someone he obviously had feelings for, could have been the end, emotionally, for Charlie. So there was at least a ray of sunshine in this whole mess.

And concentrating on that was what kept Hurley's face passive as he guided himself and his friend back to camp. The time for thinking would come later. The time for auto-pilot was now.

It was half an hour back to camp in the best of conditions, and these certainly weren't. Charlie stumbled over the tiniest of tree roots, and said nothing as Hurley grabbed his arm and helped him stay standing whenever that happened. It took forty minutes, maybe closer to an hour for the two to reach the camp.

Charlie seemed to have worn himself out by the time the caves loomed into view; he was walking a little straighter, if a bit more slowly, but his sobs had died down, at least. In the quiet between them Hurley's mind had started to drift, dangerously close to the memory of the splattered blood. He jumped involuntarily when a large thud brought him unceremoniously back to reality. He looked down; Charlie was crumpled in a heap at his feet.

A chill ran down Hurley's spine; why, he didn't know. He scooped Charlie in his arms― he was as light as a feather― and trudged as quickly as he could manage the rest of the way to camp.

Drawn by the sound of Charlie's fall and Hurley's shouts, three of the men, Jack Shepard, Michael what's-his-name (Hurley wasn't sure) and Sayid (did he even _have_ another name?) came running out from the direction of the main cave area.

"What happened?" Jack demanded.

Hurley was ready to explain it all when he realized that his voice had stopped working. He coughed and tried again. "Dude… there was this body… Charlie found it, I think he's just fainted…" Michael and Sayid took one of Charlie's arms each and lower him to the ground. Jack kneeled beside Charlie and held two fingers to his neck.

"He just passed out." Jack raised his head to look at the others. "Let's get him back to camp."

Michael and Jack hoisted Charlie between them, each one of them with one of Charlie's arms around their shoulders. He was starting to open his eyes, but still seemed weak.

Hurley and Sayid walked a few feet behind them. "You said you found a body?"

Hurley nodded, swallowing nervously. "Yeah, man. I think he killed himself."

"You do not think it was Ethan?"

Hurley frowned; the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "Dunno. Don't think so. He just looked… happy, is all. It didn't look like he was murdered."

Now Sayid was frowning, his forehead furrowing noticeably beneath his bangs. "Once we are sure that Charlie's alright, we should go examine it." Hurley must have grimaced visibly, because Sayid amended, "You don't have to come."

"Dude, I gotta show you where the body is," Hurley pointed out. "It's cool. I'm cool. I wanna make sure Charlie's okay, though. Man, he just face-planted."

Sayid nodded.

Jack had laid Charlie out on a blanket by the firepit and was feeling his forehead as Hurley walked up. Charlie's eyes were half open, but he still looked out of it.

"Dude," Hurley said slowly, "he's not, like, in shock or anything, is he?"

"No, he just fainted," Jack assured him. "He's coming around. It must have been too much for him, with Claire missing, and the withdrawl…"

Jack trailed off suddenly, giving Hurley the distinct impression that he had just heard something he wasn't meant to. But it was all good, it made sense… after all, no one had caught Charlie's 'flu', and Charlie didn't seem to be doing any better. All rock stars did drugs anyway, right? Hurley felt bad for him, though.

"We should go investigate," Sayid said, coming up to stand beside Hurley. Jack nodded and stood.

"Do you know... who it was?" Michael's voice sounded anxious.

Hurley frowned in concentration. The face did seem a bit familiar, minus the blood and dead-ness of course. "Ryan… something," Hurley said slowly. "Ryan White? Wellington? Hang on." Hurley grabbed the crumpled census out of his back pocket, where it had been staying, forgotten, since he had first compiled it. Besides the vital information that Ethan had not been a passenger on the plane, the records had been good for little else. Until now.

"Here we go," Hurley said, finding the right page. "Ryan Winthrop, twenty-two. Born in Canada, moved to Vermont when he was eleven. Painter, in Australia doings a series on the opera house. No history of mental illness."

"You actually asked people that?" Jack exclaimed.

"No." Hurley put the pad away again. It felt horrible to reduce a living, breathing person― well, what had been a living, breathing person― to a few sentences on a piece of torn paper.

"We should rule out a hostile attack," Sayid said tonelessly. "Hurley, can you lead us to the body?"

"Yah, dude," Hurley agreed quietly. Michael stood up to follow them.

"Wait, Michael," Jack said. "Someone has to stay here with Charlie. I've have to be one of the ones going… I mean, how sure are we that Ryan was dead. anyway?"

"I'm sure, dude," Hurley said solemnly, shaking his head and turning to the woods. Jack and Sayid exchanged a look and followed, and Michael, despite obvious frustration at being left behind, didn't go after them.

* * *

They had been cutting quickly through the jungle for half an hour when they came to the clearing at last Hurley prided himself on having a pretty good sense of direction; this was definitely the place. "He's over this way, guys," Hurley shouted. But he didn't enter the clearing. As much as they had been hurrying to get there, now he wasn't sure he wanted to climb over the last little bit of brush to see the sight again.

Sayid and Jack came up behind him and overtook his position, moving quickly through the last row of trees before the clearing.

Hurley saw Jack freeze. Even Sayid's stride seemed to falter slightly… and that guy had been a _soldier_. But then they started walking again, presumably right to where Ryan lay. Hurley could hear their voices, but not make out what they were saying.

Hey, man, if they could walk right up to a corpse, so could he. Kicking twigs and the long grass aside, Hurley pressed on into the clearing.

And turned right back around.

It was horrible. There was blood everywhere. It was like someone had been stabbed… then walked around, bleeding.

"Oh God," Hurley groaned, clamping a hand over his face.

"Go back, Hurley," Jack said quietly. "You don't look so good."

Hurley didn't protest in the slightest, just nodded wordlessly; he didn't really trust himself to open his mouth right then. Without looking back at Jack and Sayid― and Ryan― he walked away from the clearing as quickly as he could. Which wasn't that fast, since the world was spinning.

To be continued…

* * *

All right! Next chapter there's some Charlie angst, some Jack angst, and some Shannon/Sayid. My apologies for the fact that Michael, Walt, Jin, Sun and Kate won't be in this much. I don't feel I have a handle on their characters well enough yet. I might include Walt and Michael a bit more if their episode turns out to be good next week. And yes, people, before you say anything, this isn't the best written story in the world. So what? I'm having fun with it. If you want to see how well I can actually write, go read some of my Enterprise or Village fiction or drabbles; I'm particularly proud of them. 


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I do not own Lost.

Important note: This chapter originally contained Charlie writing a song, which in real life is Round Here by the Counting Crows. Sadly, due to guidelines, all the lyrics were removed. Sigh. The story just doesn't read as well anymore...

Apologies for this chapter… I've kind of, um, _lost_ where I was going with this, no pun intended. I actually did plan to do individual reviewer responses but with my computer the way it is, I can't this time. :( Istill live for reviews, though, so send them in!

_Gloomy Sunday_

_Chapter Two_

"It was definitely suicide," Sayid announced darkly. He and Jack were kneeling by what had, until just recently, been Ryan Winthrop. "By the trajectory of the blade you can tell that this man stabbed _himself_ in the chest… look at the angle…"

Sayid seemed relatively unfazed, but Jack didn't want to look at the angle, the knife, or anything else. He was a doctor, sure, he was no stranger to blood, but crime scenes were another story. Blood was all right, blood was _controllable_ in a sterilized hospital room. But out here, where it mixed with dirt and sprayed on trees… it was entirely different.

"He stabbed himself," Sayid was saying, "in the heart. But I believe it did not hit directly." Sayid stood and walked around the clearing, pointing out spots of blood as he went. "Before he died, he had time to stagger here… then here… until he fell where he is now… are you all right?"

Jack wasn't, and he knew it. He hadn't slept at all in two full days, and Ryan was beginning to smell a bit ripe from being in the sun all day… although, he thought, he should be used to the smell of bodies by now. Sayid's face was worried when Jack looked up at him. "I'm fine," Jack assured.

Sayid didn't press the issue. "Anyway," he continued. "I don't believe Ethan was involved here. We should probably head back to camp, check on Charlie."

"What do we do with the body?" Jack felt a bit silly to be asking, like he should already know the answer.

Sayid shrugged. "We should probably take it back, don't you think?" His voice softened slightly. "We could cremate him at camp."

_Of course_. Jack nodded, then realized exactly what that entailed. It felt strange― almost wrong― to move Ryan from his last resting place. But they couldn't leave him. Glancing at Sayid, Jack slid one arm under Ryan's legs and one behind his back. Sayid did the same on the other side. They both nodded, then hefted his dead weight off the ground and began their slow progress back to camp.

* * *

Hurley made it back to camp a little before sunset. The nausea had actually gotten better from walking, but still the afterimage of the blood was plastered against the inside of his eyelids. When he blinked, he could see the echo of it all the clearer.

Charlie had come around fully it seemed, but much to Hurley's horror, was completely ignoring all of Michael's attempts at conversation. Conversation, hell, Charlie was refusing attempts at the barest _communication_.

"Do you want some water?" Silence.

"Do you want another blanket?" Silence.

"Dude, has he said anything?" Hurley came up and sat on the log next to Michael.

Michael shook his head. "Nothing. I've tried everything."

Hurley turned back to Charlie. "Dude? Doooo-ooode?" Charlie was staring straight ahead, unblinkingly. Hurley's half-smile faltered and he looked over at Michael, who glanced back, helplessly.

Sayid and Jack chose that moment to burst into the clearing, carrying the broken body of Ryan Winthrop between them.

"Oh God," Hurley said, turning away from the body.

"Oh God," Jack said, stopping and obviously trying not to expose the body to Charlie. Leaving Sayid to lay Ryan down, Jack broke away and came over to Hurley. Michael went over to help Sayid.

"Look, Hurley," Jack said, kneeling down beside him. "Sayid and I decided to cremate the body. But we probably don't want to do it with him―" Jack indicated Charlie― "here."

Hurley nodded. "I'll take him down to the beach."

"Thanks." Jack walked away again. Hurley patted Charlie on the back before grabbing him by both arms and pulling him to his feet.

"C'mon, man… we're going for another walk."

* * *

Sayid had taken the knife out of Ryan's chest, something they hadn't thought to do before. The blood had been wiped on some nearby grass, but the blade itself now lay, uninvitingly, on the ground.

"So you're just gonna burn him?" Michael was staring disbelievingly at Sayid as Jack walked up.

"We were going to cremate him, yes."

"Well don't you think that's a little… unceremonious?" Michael seemed to be fumbling for the right word.

If Sayid was feeling anything, he didn't show it. "Ryan Winthrop was alone on the plane. He has no family on the island to bury him properly."

"Yeah, but shouldn't we have some kind of service or _something_?"

"Claire did that last time," Jack broke in, crouching down beside the two of them. Sayid and Michael both looked over at him. "But she's not here right now."

"But _still_, man…" Michael trailed off.

"We should make our decision before the others come to bed for the night," Sayid pointed out sensibly. "The sight would only disturb them."

"We could say a few words or something…"

"I think it would be best if…"

"Where did he live?" Jack interrupted. "Here or the beach?"

"The beach, I think," Michael replied instantly. "I've never seen him around here."

"I'll go find out if he was friends with anyone there," Jack said, standing. "We could ask them what to do. Don't do anything until we find out."

Sayid nodded.

"Makes sense," said Michael.

* * *

"So then, the little girl says, 'then, ma'am, I'd be a Republican!'" The punchline delivered, Hurley grinned. But Charlie walked on as though he had never heard the joke at all.

"Oh, c'mon, man." Hurley tried not to let his smile fade. "I know you're not exactly involved in American politics, being British and all, but it's a funny joke, man… Charlie?" Charlie was silent. "You gotta say something, man," Hurley insisted.

They reached the beach and sat on an unoccupied fragment of the plane that had been propped against an empty suitcase like a chair. The sun was disappearing behind the sea level, casting a red light over everything. Normally Hurley would've taken time to notice. But now he didn't even look.

"Charlie… say something, dude…" Hurley realized suddenly that he was not above begging. "Everyone's totally worried about―"

"You want me to say something!" Hurley fell silent as he was abruptly cut off. Charlie had turned to face him, blue eyes throwing sparks. "You want me to talk about it? Oh yes, everyone, let's worry about the little drug-addict. Let's try to _help_ Charlie, let's get him to _talk_ to us… you know what, Hurley? I don't want to talk to anyone but Claire. But if you want me to say something… there was no blood." Hurley's mind was already reeling from Charlie's outburst, but at this line his thoughts almost stopped completely. There had been shitloads of blood, what was Charlie talking about? But then Charlie continued.

"When Ethan was starting to hang me… kill me, he took Claire… but he was gentle with her. He took her by the hand… and she was screaming at him― 'you bastard! Don't you touch my baby'― but he was so careful with her. Almost bloody _reverent_. And there was no blood spilled. And I almost wish there had been. Because knowing that she's being… worshipped somewhere by that… _sicko_… I think she'd hate that most of all. But I really don't know," he added quietly, "what she would be thinking. I only met her a few weeks ago. There. I said something. Happy now?"

"Ohh…" Hurley groaned. "Dude…"

"I wrote a song for her," Charlie said randomly. Hurley stopped, glad that he didn't have to say anything just then. What was there to say? Charlie went on.

"Well, it's not _for_ her so much as _about_ her… it's not even about her so much as it really _reminds_ me of her…"

"Ohh…" _What was there to say to that!_

Charlie began to sing, which was incredible to Hurley. As someone who had been teased for, among other things, singing in the school choir, one thing he had become careful about was singing in front of other people. Sure, if someone asked him, he'd belt out whatever, even do requests… but not unasked. It felt almost taboo. But as a rock star, Charlie was probably used to it. Or maybe he just didn't care that much anymore.

Hurley listened, enraputed.Charlie stopped for a moment, and Hurley was about to comment, when he continued. He had only been catching his breath.

When the song ended, Charlie was shaking; Hurley realized his own hands were too. "That was…"

"When we're rescued it's going to be a single," Charlie stated. He sounded unusually sure of himself. "It's going to be played on radio stations across the world. Even if not with Driveshaft, I'll make a solo album. I'll make a solo album, just with songs about her."

"You could sing it for her, too, when she comes back," Hurley said quietly.

"Yeah. Of course I will. I think she'll like it. I hope she'll like it. I started writing it a while ago, but I didn't have the heart to finish it after she was… taken. Maybe I'll finish it now."

"Yeah…" Hurley was at an utter loss of words, for once in his life. So he blurted out whatever was on his mind. "Charlie, it's beautiful. Um... Jack and Michael are going to cremate Ryan tonight. They think we should stay down here at the beach. They don't want you to have to see."

Charlie blinked. "Oh," he murmured, looking stunned. For a minute, Hurley worried that his words had sent the man into a silent spell again. But he didn't zone out, like he had been doing lately. Instead he nodded to show his acknowledgement, then climbed off the makeshift chair, stretched out on the sand, and closed his eyes like he was going to sleep.

Hurley watched, fascinated, as Charlie drifted off almost immediately. Maybe finally talking about Claire had been an exhausting relief for him… maybe he was even more depressed now and sleeping was all he could do. Hell, maybe drug withdrawl made you tired.

It didn't matter. Hurley was just pleased that Charlie was talking and walking and sleeping peacefully and doing other semi-normal activities. Maybe he was getting better.

The sun was gone now, and Hurley felt himself drifting off as well.

* * *

And who exactly had been Ryan's friend? It was impossible to tell. They wouldn't have been an actual relative, so Jack couldn't go based on looks… couldn't hone in on anyone else with the same bright blue eyes… the ones that were already starting to film over when Jack set off for the beach…

_No_. Jack couldn't afford to dissect and rehash like this. He didn't need another obsession to lose sleep over. He didn't have the _time_ to worry about the dead. The living needed his help more.

But still Michael was right; Ryan deserved the send-off that he would've wanted. And people stuck on an island together bonded strangely, Jack had learned. There was a fairly good chance that if Ryan had any friends on the island, he would've at least alluded to his desired burial.

It was dark by the time Jack arrived at the settlement, where some tarps had been strung out on trees to fire from the wind. The beach encampment had more people than the caves… at least two dozen were crowded around the fires by the edge of the woods. Ryan had been, what, a college-age guy? It was likely that his friends on the island would've been the same.

Jack came on a ring of eight people holding hands around a fire. They looked like they were praying. Jack recognized Rose, the dark-skinned older woman he had talked to on a few occasions, and that near-sighted hypochondriac guy with the rash… Steve? Stephan? Something like that. Among the others were three people who looked in their early twenties, a boy and two girls, one with glasses and one without.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Jack apologized, walking up to the people. Some of the ones who had their eyes closed opened them abruptly, looking violated. Jack felt sheepish, like a schoolboy delivering an oral report who had forgotten how to pronounce one of the words.

"Do any of you know Ryan Winthrop? This is important." The boy nodded and one of the girls, the one with glasses, raised her hand. "Can I speak to you?"

The two of them nodded, rose and followed him off a little ways from the clearing and the warmth of the fire. Jack faced them.

"Look, there's no easy way to say this." Jack's words were rehearsed; he was used to saying things like this. Used to it, but neverimmune to the feelings that came with it."Ryan is dead. He killed himself earlier today."

From the boy, a shaggy-haired surf-bum type who looked a little older than Ryan, Jack got no response. But the brown-haired girl, who looked a little younger, paled considerably. "Oh my God..." She sounded Australian.

"My name is Jack Shepard," Jack told them, realizing that they probably didn't know who he was. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this. It looks like he stabbed himself. And we were wondering... if he might have mentioned how be wanted to be... buried. In the event of his death. I'm... so sorry."

Now the girl was silent, but the boy spoke. He sounded more intelligent than Jack would have given him credit for based on looks alone. "I'm Adam Uridel, and this is Natalie Dannen. And please don't be sorry, Jack. We didn't really know him." Natalie was staring at Adam, a shocked look on her face. Jack was surprised by Adam's coldness as well, but thought it better not to say anything about it. Instead he steered the conversation back to his original question.

"We were going to cremate him," Jack said quietly. "Do you think he would've had any objections?"

Natalie had tears streaming down her face from under her glasses. "I think he would have been fine with that, actually, mate." Adam said nothing.

"Then we're going to do it first thing tomorrow morning." Jack sighed. "It's too dark for me to walk back to the caves now. Should I come find you in the morning..." He trailed off. Adam and Natalie nodded.

* * *

It was too damn early... or late... or whatever it was, when Hurley woke from his sleep with an unceremonious poke. His eyes shot open to meet Charlie's. The other man was staring back at him intensely, more alert than he had looked in weeks.

"I finished the song," he whispered. "I need you to listen and remember it for me in case I forget before I can find a piece of paper to write it down on." Before Hurley could say a word, Charlie jumped right in. His voice was groggy with sleep but he sounded very sincere, very proud of his words. And Hurley thought he had a right to be. It was beautiful. When Charlie stopped, he looked over at Hurley nervously. "Will you remember it for me, Hurley? I can write it down once we get back to the caves. But I don't want to forget. Will you remember it?" Charlie's blue eyes were huge, earnest, and full of tears. Suddenly Hurley realized his eyes were burning too. He nodded.

"Dude," he said solemnly. "I don't think I'll ever forget it."

* * *

The end of chapter two! My computer is _majorly_ messed up, I dunno what to tell you, but please don't be mad if the next chapter isn't up for a week or so. I literally had to upload another document here, then completely erase all the text and type the fic almostentirely in the preview mode of this site... which explains typos and quotation marks that look like "" instead of "". Urgh! 


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Still don't own _Lost_. Don't rub it in. The Beatles own all of their songs that I mentioned;_Gloomy Sunday_ was originally by Rezso Seress. This originally contained lyrics from Round Here by the Counting Crows and Yellow Submarine by the Beatles, but by guidelines, these were removed from the body of the fic. :(

Please note that although I encorporate Shannon and Boone's backstory, this still takes place before the episode _Hearts and Minds_.

_Gloomy Sunday_

_Chapter Three_

Charlie went to sleep again after finishing his song, but Hurley found he couldn't. He'd had problems with insomnia before, but they were mild ones. He'd go downstairs to the computer and talk to other sleepless people online until he tired himself out. But this was different; this was… bigger. The lyrics from Charlie's song were spinning through his head relentlessly, untamable.

It was no use. Clumsy in the dark that was broken only very slightly by the halfmoon, Hurley stood up, stretched his legs, and began to pace. It harked back to these strange bursts of energy he used to get as a child, these random little panics that made him want to stand up and go somewhere. These moments were the only time in his life that his laid-back nature failed him, and this was one of those moments. He couldn't stay there; he just had too much on his mind.

Hurley kicked at the sand. Very, very rarely did things 'get' to him. But this was most definitely getting to him.

_Charlie's not going to just wake up_, he reasoned with himself. There was no harm in a ten-minute walk. Good exercise, anyway.

Hurley walked away.

* * *

Jack walked rather aimlessly down the beach. The moon cast enough light for him to see by, but nothing more than vague shapes. He was tempted to lie down right there, by the water's edge, and sleep, but that made no sense. Chances were he'd be rudely awakened by the tide at some wee hour of the night. 

He wasn't really sure where to go, though. It was going to be at least six hours before he could head back to the caves, but he had no where to stay in the meantime. Most of the people he could have considered his friends had left the beach a while ago. Sayid and Kate were the only ones that sometimes slept at the beach, but even those two spent most of their time at the caves…

But not tonight, Jack realized. Kate hadn't been at the caves all day, which meant she was probably still down here, on the beach. Jack normally wasn't one to intrude, but he thought it was a fairly safe guess that Kate wasn't asleep yet, either.

He found her little space, off a little ways, between some trees. This was where she spent her time while at the beach, he guess. Some blue plastic tarp served as a tent strung on some low-hanging branches. Clothes, a bottle of water and some guavas were tossed about. On top of a shirt that almost served as a throne, was a small blue airplane.

"Jack?" Kate's head came into view as she climbed out of the tent. "What are you doing here?"

He answered honestly. "I came to find some of Ryan's friends, to see how we should bury him." Jack realized suddenly that he didn't know if Kate was aware of the situation up at the caves. "Have you heard about that?"

Kate nodded. "News travels fast."

"Yeah. It does."

"How's Charlie doing? I heard he found the body."

"Not great. Hurley's with him." By 'with him', they both knew that Jack meant 'making sure he doesn't do anything stupid.'

Kate sat down in the sand, and Jack took it as an invitation for him to do the same.

"How are you doing?" The moonlight glinted off Kate's intense eyes as she glanced over at him.

"I'm fine," Jack replied instantly.

"What was the last time you got some sleep?"

"You don't have to worry about me, Kate," Jack said bluntly.

"You don't have to worry about everyone, Jack, but you do," Kate retorted.

"And we see how well that works," Jack muttered quietly.

"What?"

"Kate, I should have seen it coming." Jack's voice was dull, masking his disbelief at himself opening up like this. "I should have realized that something was wrong with Ryan Winthrop."

"He lived at the beach. I mean, had you even seen him before today?"

"Not really. Vaguely. I think he may have been sitting behind me on the plane." Jack ran a hand through hair that was a month's longer than he usually let it grow.

Kate looked away and straight ahead, where the ocean waves were clumsily reflecting the moonlight. "You can't be everyone's dad, Jack."

Jack's heart stopped, it seemed, for a slip second. Just like that, his throat was closed, his eyes burning. Was that it? Was he making up for… no. he promised himself a long time that he wouldn't psychoanalyze himself. Things like that only made it worse. _You can't be everyone's father…_

He jumped at the touch of Kate's hand on his arm. "Get some sleep, Jack. I'll be awake. I'll be right here. I'll wake you up at dawn, all right?"

Kate's eyes, locked on his, were gentle and sincere, and Jack realized, with a small amount of horror, that his throat was too tight to speak. But as he nodded, he knew that Kate understood.

He lay down on the sand, a bit awkwardly. Kate kept her promise, unmoving, until a moment later when she leaned down over him. For one wild second, Jack was sure she was going to kiss him, and he couldn't say he would have minded. Then, wordlessly, she lifted a hand and wiped away a tear from his cheek, one that Jack hadn't realized had fallen. And it was almost insane, but in that instant, Jack felt the safest he had in a long time. Not just in the last month, but the safest he had for years and years.

He didn't fight when his eyes began to close. Kate's silhouette was the last thing he saw.

* * *

Hurley returned half an hour later, out of breath and only slightly less restless. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a woman, sitting where he had been sitting, stroking Charlie's hair in a motherly way. 

"Umm… hi?" Hurley walked closer. She was a kindly-looking woman, somewhere in her late 50's, he guessed, and she looked up as he approached. He remembered her from sometime before… Lavender, was it? No, wait, Rose. Well, it was as flower anyway.

"Uh, d­-" Hurley stopped, feeling like a schoolboy about to be told off for calling his teacher by their first name. This woman commanded a certain kind of respect. "Ma'am?" Hurley tried again, realizing he didn't know her last name. "Mrs. Rose? I'm Hugo Reyes, Charlie's friend. I was staying with him for the night, but I just got up, you see, for a walk… is everything all right?"

"Hello, Hugo," Rose said gently, looking up at him. "Charlie was just talking in his sleep a bit. I came over to make sure everything was all right." Rose stopped smoothing Charlie's hair and drew both her hands together, folded in her lap. "He is the one that found Ryan, isn't he?

"Yeah," Hurley agreed. His voice was low; he didn't know why he felt he should whisper, but he did it anyway.

"And how are you, Hugo?" Rose questioned calmly. Her dark eyes were probing him from top to bottom. "You found the body too."

"Me?" Hurley repeated. "I'm cool. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks. Why?"

Rose shook her head slowly. "Because Charlie's going to need you. I can't stay with him when he goes back to the caves. The other 'beachers' and I are starting to build a shelter near the wood's edge. I can't stay at the caves with him. Are you up for it? He needs someone."

Hurley felt himself nodding. "Yeah. It's cool. Did he say anything in particular? I mean, is there... anything I should know?"

"Not really," Rose said, rising tiredly. Hurley automatically stood and offered her his hand, which she took, pulling herself up the rest of the way. "He wasn't doing much talking," she went on. "Are you a religious man, Hugo?"

Hurley tilted his head to one side- that was what he did instead of raising his eyebrows; he could never get the 'Spock' thing to work. "I guess so. I'm not much of one, but I'm not... not one." That was pretty much the truth, anyway.

Rose nodded approvingly. "Good night, then." She turned and walked off in the direction of the main beach settlement.

Hurley stood for a minute, dumbfounded. Then he sat down next to Charlie and pulled the blanket up higher around the other man's shoulders before leaning back against the log himself and shutting his eyes. Charlie snuffled and shifted a bit more to his side, but didn't wake.

"Y'know, dude," Hurley whispered, conversationally, even though Charlie couldn't hear him. "That Rose reminds me a little of Locke. Locke, and my mom."

* * *

Kate roused him, like she had promised, as soon as the first few rays of pink sun were coming over the horizon. Jack felt guilty; she didn't look as though she had slept at all. She was wordless as she followed him to find Natalie and Adam. He didn't ask her to accompany him, but she did willingly. Jack had learned not to argue things like that. 

Even after they found them, the silence remained. The four walked back to the caves without conversation, not even small talk. It was making Jack uncomfortable.

Ryan's body was laid out in a clearing, surrounded by twigs and leaves. The blood had been cleaned from him, but still, Jack fought off a sudden wave of nausea looking at him. He wondered suddenly, uncontrollably, if they should change plans at the last minute and bury him. Cremation now seemed somehow barbaric. Just like that he was fighting back tears again. It was funny, how much he'd been doing that lately. But this time Jack fought hard. There were people gathered around the clearing to pay their respects, and they were going to look to him for strength. There was something that none of them would ever know, though:

Kate's hand was on Jack's. Jack had no strength of his own in that moment; he was getting it all from her.

* * *

"Ryan Winthrop was twenty-two," Hurley said, as though this fact was the most vital, the most interesting bit of knowledge in the world. He had woken Charlie at sunrise and dragged them both here, only to be met by Michael asking him to deliver the eulogy. What was he supposed to say? 

Charlie was beside him. Miraculously, almost, he seemed… okay. He seemed better. He was staring down at the body with eyes that were blank, but not dead. This had to be an improvement. Jack and Kate were there (holding hands, he noted) as well as Sayid, Michael, Walt, Shannon, Boone, and a bunch of other people he didn't know by name were standing around. More people than were expected had come; there was a crowd of at least twenty, he guessed. Rose was there, in the back. Two people were crying, Shannon and a brown-haired girl he didn't know.

"Ryan was born in Canada, and moved south to Vermont with his mother when he was young. He was studying art and came to Australia to do a series of paintings on the opera house. I didn't know him very well, but he seemed like a good guy. Um… yeah. I hope you… found peace, buddy." That was all he could think to say.

Sayid laid a torch down on the branches surrounding Ryan's body. Most of the crowd, Hurley included, turned away, but Charlie continued to stare at the flames, mesmerized.

"Dude…" Hurley tested cautiously. Charlie looked up at him, face still for a moment, then incredibly flashed a smile.

"Hurley? Will you help me for a minute? I'm going to write my song down now."

* * *

Most of the people had left almost immediately after the fire was lit. Sayid couldn't blame them. It was a rather morbid sight. Now there were only four people left around the fire as the morning slowly became the afternoon: Shannon, Sayid himself, and a pair of Ryan's friends who had been introduced to him as Natalie and Adam. As Shannon and Sayid watched silently, Natalie knelt and collected most of the ashes into someone's clay pot. An urn it wasn't; it looked more ready to serve lemonade in than anything else. But they made due. 

Nodding their goodbyes to the other two, Natalie and Adam walked off in the direction of the beach. The plan was to scatter the ashes in the ocean, and everyone agreed that something like that was personal enough that only Ryan's actual friends should be there. It seemed appropriate.

Sayid watched them go before turning back to Shannon. She was still crying gently, inconsolably, and his heart broke as he looked at her, like it had a habit of doing.

"What's wrong," he said quietly. It was less of a question and more of a prompt.

Shannon shrugged in a frustrated way. "I dunno," she replied tearfully. "Everything. It's stupid." She sniffed.

"I'm sure it's not," he soothed. "You can tell me. There's no one else here."

Shannon shook her head. "It's… Boone. I was just thinking about Boone."

"Your brother?" Sayid was confused. "Is he all right?"

"No," Shannon said bluntly. "He's not all right. He's… sick. He's sick, Sayid. And I don't know how to fix him."

For a moment that sentence hung in the air. Then Sayid said, gently, "If you want to tell me, go ahead. I understand if you don't."

Shannon sniffed again, louder. "You'll hate me, Sayid. But I kind of do want you to know. I think you deserve to know."

Sayid looked at her evenly, steadily. "All right."

There was a long pause in which the air itself seemed to stand still, waiting for Shannon to collect herself. Then, after a while, she spoke. "He… loves me." Her courage failed and she broke down crying again. "He's really my step-brother, so we're not related, but it's still sick. He's loved me for years, and it kills him." She choked. "When he was eighteen, he actually tried to kill himself. I asked him how to make him happy, so he wouldn't try again. And we… you know. And then again a few years later."

Sayid was not one to be shocked. Surprising news he just assimilated automatically. So when Shannon announced Boone's love for her, Sayid was not thrown off-rhythm. But this last statement shook him, if only slightly, as things fell into place. Boone had attempted suicide. It must have been impossible for Shannon to look at Ryan without remembering that. And remembering what had happened after.

"Don't you hate me?" Shannon asked miserably. "Don't you think I'm a little slut now?"

"No," Sayid responded honestly. "No, I don't." Shannon began to cry again.

Gingerly, as though doing something that he shouldn't have been, Sayid drew Shannon into his arms, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like seawater and eucalyptus, and some sort of bittersweet flower that the women had been crushing and mixing with water for a makeshift shampoo. He felt the warmth of her face against his neck and the wetness of her tears soaking into his shirt and running down the bare skin of his arm. Her weight, leaning against him, was almost insubstantial, but he felt her skin press against his vividly nonetheless. He tried not to think about it; it was Shannon that needed him now, not the other way around.

And yet, when they pulled apart and Shannon sniffed, wiped her eyes and smiled at him, Sayid felt like he was the one who had been comforted.

"I'm here," he whispered.

* * *

Charlie had written the melody amazingly fast, and was strumming it on his guitar as Hurley carefully recorded the words he remembered hearing the night before. They were sitting back at the caves, by the waterfall. Ryan's fire had been visible through the trees until just a little while ago; now it had gone out. Hurley wondered if Charlie felt the same way that he did; that only now, that the song had been recorded on paper, was the entire ordeal over. Even though the songhad been written for Claire and not for Ryan, it seemed as though Ryan could finally rest now that the song was complete. 

"Here you go," Hurley mumbled, passing the paper and pen to Charlie.

"Thanks." He hit another chord then accepted the lyrics.

"Dude. That's cool. What else can you play on that thing?" Hurley himself had never been great with instruments. He was a vocalist through-and-through.

Charlie began to play a slow, morbid song.

"_What_ is _that_?"

Charlie stopped. "_Gloomy Sunday_. Very old song, very good, though. Hungarian bloke wrote it originally, I think." He sang a line.

Hurley laughed without warning. "Dude, that's depressing. God. Play something else."

Charlie stopped again. "What should I play?"

Hurley shrugged. "I don't know. Something."

"Thanks for the guidance."

"Play the Beatles."

"Beatles!" Charlie grinned. "Ah, _now_ you're speaking my language!"

"But nothing depressing," Hurley warned. "No _Strawberry Fields_. No _Yesterday_."

Charlie thought a moment, then began to play again. He sang along, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. Hurlye grinned as he recognized the first lines of _Yellow Submarine_.

"Chorus, Hurley!" Charlie cried, inviting Hurley to sing along.

Charlie had the stupidest grin on his face, and Hurley broke out laughing, hard, so hard his sides hurt.

What else was there to do, really? There was a rare moment of peace on the island, why let it go to waste?

* * *

Fic end! Hope you liked it. The ending was probably a bit rushed, but that's always where I have the most problems. Please, please review! I am officially begging :D 


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